Chapter 14

14

Nola

Aloud incessant sound cracks through the void, jarring me out of dreams. As my eyes flip open to the surrounding darkness, I snap my head toward the alarm clock, and army crawl toward it. After slamming my hand against the snooze button, I bury my face in the pillows.

Bits of my dream still linger, keeping me in a semi-lucid state as I turn my head to the side, the events from the night before creeping into my slowly-dawning consciousness.

The last thing I remember is telling Voss about my job. And Harv.

And that my parents conceived me in New Orleans.

Burying my face again, I groan. Why the hell would I tell him that?

I perform a quick pat down, mentally noting my pants and shirt still in place.

So, did I stumble to bed and pass out, or pass out first? Did Voss put me to bed?

Lifting my head, I slam my face into the pillow over and over, stirring the beginnings of a headache. Guy could’ve done a million and one things to me in my sleep, but there’s no evidence to suggest he did any more than help a tipsy idiot not fall down the stairs to her death.

Christ.

Of course, I have a deeply-rooted desire to believe Voss is a decent person, because if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being wrong about someone. Even so, I’ll never be able to face this guy again, and if he doesn’t already think I’m a freak, well, that’s a problem in itself.

It comes as a surprise that my head isn’t throbbing like yesterday, when I swore there were rhinos bouncing on pogo-sticks inside my skull. “Must’ve been good wine,” I mutter, stumbling out of the bed toward the bathroom.

I brush my teeth and relieve myself quickly, before nabbing my phone off the nightstand on my way out of the bedroom.

Oliver’s bedroom door is cracked, and I peek inside to find him sleeping. Moving to beside his bed, I’m taken back to the days when he was just a baby, asleep in his crib, and I could watch him for hours, dreaming of so many things for him in life.

I curse the world for being so cruel to him at such a young age, for proving how shitty some human beings can be. So many days, I wish I could go back to those moments, when he fit in my arms, and I could keep him safe just by holding him.

The moment his form blurs, I quickly shuffle out of his room. I can’t get caught up in those thoughts. Not today.

Hustling to downstairs, I enter the kitchen and find an entire pot of coffee already made. Either Voss programmed it, or I was walking around in a drunken, zombie state while performing all my usual bedtime routines.

I make Oliver a quick lunch, then drink a cup of coffee while reading the news on my CNN app. Locally, another girl has gone missing—a young blonde socialite last seen by friends in The Loop. Authorities suspect it’s the same guy who swiped up a couple girls before her, whose bodies were found without eyeballs.

Ugh. This is exactly why I hate watching, or reading, the news. Stories like these play on my paranoia, and suddenly every man I know is a suspect.

I click out of the app, then head up the stairs to wake Oliver. My phone buzzes in my back pocket on the way, and I slip it out to see Jonah calling.

“Hey,” I say on answering.

“Hey, Diane wanted me to let you know she’s going to be about fifteen minutes late grabbing Oli after school. Is he okay to be home for a few?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine.” Most likely, he’ll come home, sit in his room, and either read, or draw, or blast his music. Either way, he’ll keep himself occupied. As a single mom, I’ve had to make quick runs to the grocery store, leaving him home for a few minutes at a time.

“Okay, cool. How’s the new roommate working out?”

“Voss? He’s … not bad. Keeps to himself mostly, but not in a creepy way.”

“Good. You’ll tell me if anything goes awry.”

“Duh. And thanks for giving me a heads-up for today. I’ll let Oli know to wait on the front porch for her.”

“All right. Talk later. Love you.”

“Love you more,” I say, before hanging up the phone.

One thing I always regretted was never giving Oli a sibling. Just wasn’t in the cards with Denny. We tried when Oliver was two, but a half dozen miscarriages later, and I was tired. Tired of crying, tired of hoping, but mostly, tired of feeling like a broken woman. I think a sibling might’ve changed things, though. There were times when I couldn’t talk to my mother, but things just came easy with Jonah. Not even Nora and I had the kind of bond I shared with my brother.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Time to wake up, Oli.”

As usual, he doesn’t say a word, but huffs and rolls over in bed.

“C’mon, Champ. I know you’re tired, but you have to get up.”

Seconds pass, and he doesn’t move.

“Oliver, you have to get up, baby. It’s time for school.”

Still no movement.

I pad across his room to beside his bed and give a light shake of his arm. “Hey, I hate having to get up for work, but that’s the breaks, kid.”

He shoves my hand away, burying his face in the pillow.

“What’s going on?”

When he turns to face me, I catch the shine of tears in his eyes.

Worry blooms in my chest. “Oli? What’s wrong, baby?”

His brows come together as he lets out a quiet whimper, and for a moment, I think he’s going to open his mouth and speak for the first time in months. Instead, he breaks into a quiet sob.

“Oliver? Did something happen last night?” My first thought is that I let a man, a stranger, into my house, and passed out drunk while my son was left alone with him. The kind of thing only a truly shitty mom would do.

A thought that stirs nausea in my gut, as I watch him curl into himself, until he shakes his head, setting my guts free of the anxiety. I’ll punish myself later for my irresponsibility, but for now, my focus is finding out what makes my son, who hasn’t cried in months, suddenly break into sobbing.

“Voss didn’t come into your room, or anything?”

He shakes his head, wiping away the tears.

“Are you sad? Did you have a bad dream about your dad again?”

Again, he shakes his head.

“God, I wish you’d tell me, baby. I’d give anything to hear you tell me what’s wrong.” I stroke his hair and thumb a tear from his cheek. “Did something happen at school?”

He doesn’t answer at first, and a million days seem to slip through my head all at once, on a desperate search to remember an instance when he might’ve tried to tell me something before, and I was just too preoccupied with my own shit.

But he shakes his head.

“Do you want to write it down?”

He lets out an exasperated breath and pushes my hand away, while he sits up in bed. Just like that, his emotions are sucked away into an invisible vacuum, leaving me with more questions than answers. If I cracked this kid open, he’d probably have unaddressed anger and resentment spilling out of him like a pi?ata.

“Oliver … I may not be the wisest person in the world, but you’re the most important person in mine. If something’s bothering you, or if something happened, you’ll tell me, yeah?”

Tucking his knees close to his body, he nods.

“Okay. Whenever you’re ready, just … come to me. I’m all ears, okay?”

He nods again.

“Okay. I’ll see you downstairs.” I pat his leg and push up from his bed, before making my way downstairs. Every day, I feel like I’m losing the little boy who wanted nothing more than to cuddle with me when I first woke him up in the morning. As he grows older, I feel as if his heart is becoming harder, more impenetrable. That his anger has begun to outweigh his love.

After a quick breakfast, I shuffle Oliver off to school and hop in the shower. Ten minutes later, I’m out the door, wet hair and all.

On Mondays, I work afternoons, which gives me time to do some much-needed grocery shopping. Poor Oli had both heels of bread for his peanut butter sandwich this morning.

I actually hate buying food, and look forward to the day I can push a button and it all arrives in some huge pneumatic tube, conveniently organized in my refrigerator. But until then, I wheel the Explorer into an open spot at the end of the row of the grocery store lot, feeling like every other normal person who drives a fully functioning vehicle, for once in my life. No worrying about whether, or not, the damn thing will start when I leave the store.

With the extra money from Jonah and Diane, coupled with what Voss gave me, I feel like a woman who can buy the expensive granola and body wash. And another delight? Not having to worry whether, or not, the transaction will go through.

In a matter of thirty minutes, my cart is full of things that, just a week ago, I couldn’t afford, and I head to check out.

“How are you feeling, Star Wars?” The deep velvet voice tickles my ear, as I wait to unload my cart, and I turn to find Voss in line behind me.

Tall and intimidating, he looks damn near edible in his black button-down shirt and jeans. There’s something about this man I can’t quite put my finger on. Something wild and terrifying beneath that tightly-composed mask he wears, like a thunderstorm trapped behind the thin veil of a cloud. I have a feeling if ever he decided to cut loose, he’d wreak havoc on whatever crossed his path.

His basket holds a bottle of liquor, wine, some vegetables, cat kibble, which means he hasn’t gotten rid of the kitten yet, and a few granola bars. Not unusual to find him here, seeing as it’s the closest store to where we live, just strange seeing him out in public. Like running into a wolf while out in the woods.

Heat rushes over me in waves as the memories from the night before remind me I have much to be embarrassed about in this encounter.

“Not bad. Not good,” I tell him. “Am I to assume it was you who put me to bed?”

“Were you expecting someone else helped you?”

“I’m … sorry for that. I don’t drink often, but when I do, it’s a disaster. I don’t typically talk … so freely.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So, we’re on the same shopping schedule?”

“I’m just here to pick up a few things.”

“The essentials, I see.”

“I like my whiskey … almost as much as watching you polish off a bottle of wine by yourself.” The amusement in his voice is an annoyance that I find oddly attractive. A hate to like sort of thing that has me both irritated from the embarrassment and strangely drawn to his cockiness.

“Well, I hope you took a picture, because that isn’t happening again.”

“Said the girl who nursed a hangover the day before that.”

“You really enjoy getting on my nerves, don’t you?”

“I enjoy getting on lots of things, but your nerves has quickly become my favorite.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

I pay for the groceries, and Voss walks me out to my car—uninvited of course, but I appreciate the gesture, particularly when he loads the bags into the trunk.

“For a Wall Street Wolf, you’re awfully polite.”

“Perhaps you’ve found my inner sheep.”

I chuckle at that, standing just outside the propped driver door.

In a few steps, he invades my personal space, crowding me against the car in a way that trips my body harm alarms. He leans forward, and I swear I can hear my pulse in my own ear when his warm breath fans my neck. The crinkle of a bag draws my attention to the bottle shaped sack he sets on my driver seat behind me. The bottle of wine, I’m guessing. “We’ll keep that our secret, yeah?”

My blood is burning, hands trembling at my side. Not only does he smell incredible, but he gives off a sort of electricity that stuns in such close proximity. When I nod, he leans into me again, keeping his lips close to my throat.

I close my eyes to the visuals of him kissing me right here in the middle of the parking lot.

“You have a nice day, Nola.” The deep timber of his voice oozes raw masculinity, and the temperature of my body becomes apparent the moment he steps away from me and a coldness filters in between us.

I open my eyes to see him heading toward his car with the kind of cocky stride that only some men can pull off. The kind belonging to a powerful man who truly doesn’t give a shit what you think of him.

A glance down at my hands shows white knuckles gripping the window frame—a clear sign that the man sends my body into a state of defense.

* * *

Islip my apron over my head and hop along the serving counter as I tug my shoes on. “Hey, Dale, where’s Bethany?”

“No call. No show.” Disappointment clings to his voice as he glances around at the diner that’s packed on a Monday afternoon. “Josie’s coming in at two, but this place is getting nuts. If you’d been one minute later, I’d been chewin’ your ass.”

“Your teeth will never come close to my ass, Dale.” I try to lighten the mood, but I feel his stress. It’s going to be a busy one today.

“Your buddy in the corner refuses to be served by anyone else.” With an irritated grumble, he gives a slight jerk of his head. “Might want to start with him first. He’s been here for about twenty minutes, waiting for you.”

Twisting around, I find Simon sitting in the corner booth with a half-drawn smile, and he waves to me. Earlier than his usual time.

“Oh, boy,” I mutter, mostly to myself. This should be interesting. Rejection has never really been my thing, and I didn’t want to put him in the position of being slapped with it, but he asked me, and I don’t do dates.

When I spin back around, something on Dale’s collar draws my attention. A red splotch against the white fabric. “What happened there? You got … something red. Is it ketchup?”

In an instant, he slaps his hand against his neck, cheeks flushed, as he steps away from the serving counter. “I cut myself shaving this morning. That’s gross.”

His face pinches to disgust, as if a little bit of blood is a big deal.

“Dale, I had a husband. Who shaved. And cut himself, sometimes. I don’t consider that to be all that gross. Maybe try vinegar to get it out of the fabric.”

“Thanks,” he says, making his way toward the sink across the kitchen.

I finally head over to Simon, trying to muster a friendly, non-awkward smile. “Hey, Simon, what can I get ya?”

“I just want to start out by saying I’m sorry. For asking you out.”

“You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“You lost your husband. It was … too soon. I admire that in you.”

That’s not the only reason, but I nod, anyway. “It’s been rough for Oli and me.”

“I don’t … do that often. I just want you to know.”

“I understand. You took a chance. Nothing wrong with that.”

“It is, though. It’s wrong to take advantage of a grieving woman.”

“Really, Simon. You’re beating yourself up over nothing.” At the flinch of his brows, I clear my throat. “I don’t mean nothing. I just mean, I don’t think bad of you for asking. So, how ‘bout we start over. What can I get ya?”

“Usual. Grilled cheese. No crust. Fries. Ketchup on the side, and a glass of milk.”

“Got it.” I jot his order down and stuff the pad and pen into my apron. “You haven’t heard from Beth, or Harv, have you?”

Lips pursed, he shakes his head. “My guess? Those two probably hooked up with the wrong person.”

Perhaps it’s a disturbed look on my face that has Simon’s eyes widening, and he lurches in the booth. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. It was … a joke.”

I can’t lie. I’ve sometimes wondered the same thing, as often as they take in strangers, but hearing someone else say it aloud is like giving life to a forbidden thought.

I’m more inclined to believe the two of them packed up and skipped town, but Beth is such a braggart, I can’t imagine her not telling anyone. I can’t imagine her skipping work, either, as often as they bitch about money.

“Let’s hope you’re wrong.”